


There and Then

by starraya



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Strong Language, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7712512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not happening. This could not be happening. Never in her 20 odd years of working in corrections had Bridget Westfall truly wished to have never entered the profession. There was a queasiness in her stomach; for a moment the room seemed to lurch and spin. Bridget eased herself down to sit behind her desk. Sighing, she covering her eyes with her hands, before massaging the growing ache there. She resisted the urge to bang her head against the desk. This was not happening.</p><p>But it was.</p><p>ABANDONED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There and Then

**Author's Note:**

> A fun little 'what if?'

This was not happening. This could not be happening. Never in her 20 odd years of working in corrections had Bridget Westfall truly wished to have never entered the profession. There was a queasiness in her stomach; for a moment the room seemed to lurch and spin. Bridget eased herself down to sit behind her desk. Sighing, she covering her eyes with her hands, before massaging the growing ache there. She resisted the urge to bang her head against the desk. This was not happening.

 

But it was.

 

First week of a new job she had been genuinely excited at getting and now all the good she hoped to do might never appear. She had come here determined to make a difference as cliché as it sounded, having heard of the desperate lack of adequate mental health services at Wentworth. She had come to help the women here. Had been appointed by the board to do just that.

 

One week in and Bea Smith had refused help, but told Bridget the other women could use a shrink. Bridget had organised a group session to get to know the women as well as to talk over the riot. That’s when Bridget had first, fleetingly, saw her. Bridget had offered her a seat. The inmate had dismissed the offer. Bridget had continued with the session, but there had been a glimmer of recognition in her mind. Bridget's brain had scrambled for an explanation. She knew it could not be a good one. The feeling that tugged uneasily at her was the kind that settled upon you when you knew you'd forgotten something bad, but you hadn't recalled it yet so the gravity of it hadn't set in. You were still missing a piece of memory.

 

It was only after the group session that Bridget found it. She realised where she had seen Franky Doyle's face before.

 

What the fuck was Bridget meant to do now? Go to the sour-faced Governor who clearly disapproved of Bridget's appointment and inform the woman that Bridget's continued employment at Wentworth might need review, because some years ago she had fucked a prisoner?

 

Bridget groaned. Should she tell the Governor as well that - from Bridget's drink-fuzzed memory - the sex had been pretty good?

 

Bridget had been on the rebound after a messy split from her girlfriend. Bridget had started the night with one intention: to get absolutely pissed. And she had. She had also caught the eye of a very hot brunette. Bridget remembered that she herself had wore a red dress, one far too tight and far too short than she normally would. And it was the dress and the drink that had raised her confidence and loosened her inhibitions. The club had been dark and unbearably hot. She remembered the flashing lights, the thumping, loud music. Relentless. Rhythmical. Intoxicating.

 

She remembered dancing with the brunette - if you could call it that. It was more foreplay. She remembered the woman's body pressed tight against her own. Bridget remembered how her blood had been burning. She remembered one of them dragging the other to the toilets. The sex had been quick. Quick and rough. Bridget remembered waking up to find a mark on her shoulder. Waking up feeling like death. Her head pounding. Her throat sandpaper. Something illegible scrawled on her hand. Her memory was hazy and the last night seeped back slowly into her consciousness, a mess of vodka and sweat. Parts of the memory were blurred and dull, others black and blotted out.  

 

It came back to her now, more or less whole. It had been a long time ago, but she remembered the one night stand because she'd never done anything like it before or since. The passing years had blurred her already drink-fogged memory and so it was only after she saw Franky Doyle that she fully remembered and recongised her as the brunette. Her tattoos, her grin, her eyes were hard to truly forget.

 

Their meeting this morning had only been a few seconds. Bridget was not surprised Franky had not recognised her there and then. She was infinitely grateful. It gave the psychologist time, but time for what?

 

Bridget leant back in her chair. Blew out a long breath.

 

"Oh God."

 

-

 

After Franky had been slotted and Ferguson had left and the shrink too, not before peering through the window of the door and smiling softly at her, Franky Doyle flopped down on her bed. After a while a grin danced on her features. Surely the shrink couldn't be who Franky thought she was? Absolutely not. No fucking way. But still the idea amused her. The shrink looked so . . . tame, with her fancy jackets, her clipboard, her controlled, even tone. Franky had had her down as a typical prying shrink. Annoying, boring, needed to get out more.

 

Westfall had strode up to her in the corridor, cool, confident, asking for a chat. Franky had tried to get the shrink off her back. God knew she already had enough people on it, clambering for a piece of her flesh. She owed people drugs she didn't have. In her anger and frustration, she'd just fucked up, royally. Vinegar Tits. Verbal abuse charge. 6 months until she could apply for parole again. And now she was getting cornered in the corridor. She needed a miracle, not a counsellor. Tina and her girls were vying for blood. That was the one thing Franky's mind was concentrated on. Not whether she might have fucked the shrink once upon a time.

 

So Franky threw some books. Got slotted. Finally.

 

And now in the solitude of her cell Franky started to wonder. _No fucking way._

 

Franky couldn't be certain. That night she'd been wasted. The drink had messed with her memory. Besides it had been years. It had happened before all this, before prison, before her life went to shit. (Not that it was that fan-fucking-tastic before Wentworth.)

 

But the memory returned. The face of a girl a with pretty smile and blonde hair and a red, tight dress. Franky Doyle did not fuck and forget. She also did not kiss and tell, not to the woman she may or may not have fucked. Franky was only 60% certain when the blonde had stopped her in the corridor. Even if Franky had got it wrong, it would have been interesting to see the shrink's response. Ruffle her feathers. God knew Franky needed some fun around here and she nearly blurted it out as she would any other suggestive remark, abruptly, without any coyness, hoping for a reaction, an uncomfortable shift of arms, a flickering down of eyes, a flood of colour in the cheeks.

 

But, in the end, Franky decided against it. Knowledge was power and all that.

 

So when Westfall appeared in her cell the following morning Franky simply teased her that breakfast in bed had, sadly, been and gone. The shrink hadn't blushed. Just smiled. Still lying in bed, Franky's eyes had roamed the shrink's body. Scrutinised. _No fucking way_.

 

Westfall said the Governor thought a counselling programme might be more beneficial. Franky called bullshit. Refused to move. Ferguson wanted to throw her to the dogs. Get her out the way. Get Jodie alone. To do some fucked-up shit. The Freak was waiting for Franky to fuck up as well, freed from the slot, no right-hand woman, no protection. Franky knew she walked a thin line, and the end of it was a coffin. Her size, exactly.

 

Talking wasn't going to achieve shit. Her options ranged from shit-house to cluster-fuck. And she told the Westfall that. It was then that Franky thought she was just an typical prying shrink. All of her talk of futures and hope ground on Franky's frayed nerved. She was too exhausted to hope. Too exhausted to be anything but realistic. So she walked out of the session before it was the end of the hour, all thoughts of Bridget Westfall and their potential one night stand in the back of her mind, uncared for.

 

Until Westfall strode up to her, smiling in the library, Vinegar Tits by her side. Somehow Westfall had got Bennett to drop the charge. Conditions: an apology and regular counselling. Franky agreed. It could be fun. One: Bridget Westfall did not look an inch straight. Two: in Franky's mind, there was now an 80% chance that they had fucked.

 

So, counselling. No verbal abuse charge. A clean slate. Franky thanked Westfall. _Gidget._ Westfall corrected her. Franky said she preferred Gidget. Westfall raised her eyebrows. Sauntered away. Franky leant back in her chair, her law book forgotten. Franky knew for certain that Westfall - _Gidget_  - did not remember their dalliance.

 

As for Franky, that 80% had just risen to 95.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much loved.


End file.
